Джозеф Файндер - Extraordinary Powers

“All right,” I said impatiently.

Rossi continued patiently: “The Soviets didn’t even use the thing, as you may know. They gave seminars on how to beat it. For God’s sake, do you remember the time when twenty-seven Cuban DGI double agents working against us were cleared by CIA flutter?”

“Sure,” I said. It was part of Agency lore.

“The damn thing registers only emotional responses, as you know. Which vary widely depending upon temperament. And yet the flutter is the cornerstone of so much of our intelligence operations. Not only for the CIA, but for the DIA and NSA and a number of intelligence agencies and divisions. Their operational security all hangs on this, establishing bona fides and reliability of product, even screening applicants and recruits.”

“And it’s easy to defeat,” I added.

“Embarrassingly easy,” Rossi agreed. “Not just sociopaths or people who don’t register the normal range of human emotions, guilt and anxiety, pangs of conscience, and whatnot. But any trained professional can beat the machine using any of a number of drugs. Even doing something simple like causing oneself physical pain during the test can skew the results. Stepping on a thumbtack, for Christ’s sake.”

“Okay,” I prompted him.

“So, with your permission, I’d like to get started, and have you on your way back to Mr. Truslow.”

“Half an hour,” Rossi told me, “and you should be out of here. And on your way.”

We stood in the outer MRI chamber, inspecting 3-D computer reconstructions of the human brain, rendered on a computer’s color monitor. On the screen in front of me, a lifelike image of a brain rotated and then flew apart, section by section, like a pink grapefruit.

One of Rossi’s lab assistants, a small, dark-haired former MIT graduate student named Ann, sat at the monitor and called up the various images. The cerebral cortex, she explained to me in a soft, little-girl voice, was made up of six layers. “We’ve discovered that there is a discernible difference between the appearance of the cortex in someone who’s telling the truth and someone who’s lying,” she said. She added confidentially, “Of course, I still have no idea whether this originates in the neurons or in the glial cells, but we’re working on that.”

She produced a computer image of a liar’s brain, which seemed to be shaded somewhat differently from the nonliar’s brain.

“If you want to take off your jacket,” Rossi said, “you’ll be more comfortable.” I did so, and removed my tie, placed them both on the back of a chair. Meanwhile, Ann went into the inner chamber and began adjusting the machine.

“Now, anything metal,” he went on. “Keys, belt buckles, suspenders, coins. Your watch, too. Since it’s really just one big magnet, anything made of steel or iron is going to fly out of your pockets. The magnet can stop your watch, or at least screw it up pretty badly.” He chortled good-humoredly. “Also, your wallet.”

“My wallet?”

“The thing can demagnetize things like bank cards, magnetic strips, stuff like that. You don’t have a steel plate in your head or anything like that, right?”

“No.” I finished emptying my pockets and placing the contents on a lab table.

“All right,” he said, leading me into the inner chamber. “This might feel a bit claustrophobic. Does that bother you?”

“Not especially.”

“Excellent. There’s a mirror in there, too, so you can see yourself, but a lot of people don’t like looking at themselves lying flat in the machine. I guess it suggests to some people what they’re going to look like in their coffins.” He chortled again.

I lay down on the white platform, and Ann strapped me in. The straps around my head fit snugly and were cushioned with sponges. The whole setup was vaguely uncomfortable.

Slowly she moved the platform into the center of the machine. Inside the doughnut hole was, as they said, a mirror, enabling me to see my head and torso.

From somewhere in the room I heard Ann’s voice:

“—to start the magnet.”

Then, from a speaker inside the machine, I heard Rossi’s voice: “All right in there?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “How long does this take?’

“Six hours,” the voice came back. “I’m kidding. Ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Very funny.”

“All set?”

“Let’s get on with it,” I said.

“You’ll hear a pounding noise,” Rossi came back, “but you’ll still be able to hear my voice over that. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said impatiently.

The head guard made it impossible to move my head, which was an unpleasant feeling. “Let’s get on with it.” Suddenly a loud jackhammer-like sound started, a rhythmic thudding, spaced less than a second apart.

“Ben, I’m going to ask you a series of questions,” came Rossi’s voice, metallic. “Answer yes or no.”

“This isn’t my first flutter,” I said.

“I understand,” came the metallic reply. “Is your name Benjamin Ellison?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Is your name John Doe?”

“No.”

“Are you a physician?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had an extramarital affair?”

“What is this?” I said angrily.

“Please, just bear with me. Yes or no.”

I hesitated. Like Jimmy Carter, I have felt lust in my heart. “No.”

“Were you employed by the Central Intelligence Agency?”

“Yes.”

“Do you live in Boston?”

“Yes.”

I heard a female voice from the room, Ann’s voice, and then a male voice coming from somewhere nearby. Then Rossi’s amplified question: “Were you an agent for Soviet intelligence?”

I gave a sputter of disbelief.

“Yes or no, Ben. You understand these questions are designed to test the parameters of your anxiety levels. Were you an agent for Soviet intelligence?”

“No,” I said.

“Are you married to Martha Sinclair?”

“Yes.”

“Holding up okay in there, Ben?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Continue.”

“Were you born in New York City?”

“No.”

“Were you born in Philadelphia?”

“Yes.”

“Are you thirty-eight years old?”

“No.”

“Are you thirty-nine years old?”

“Yes.”

“Is your name Benjamin Ellison?”

“Yes.”

“Now, Ben, I want you to lie for the next two questions. Is your legal specialty real estate law?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Have you ever masturbated?”

“No.”

“Now the truth. When you worked for American intelligence, did you at the same time work for the intelligence service of any other nation?”

“No.”

“Since the termination of your employment with the Central Intelligence Agency, have you been in touch at any time with any intelligence officer formerly associated with what was once the Soviet Union or the Soviet Bloc nations?”

“No.”

There was a long pause, and then Rossi’s voice came again. “Thanks, Ben. That’ll do.”

“So get me out of here already.”

“Ann will have you out in a minute.” The jackhammering stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and the silence was an enormous relief. My ears felt thick. I heard voices again, distantly: the lab techs, surely.

“All set, Mr. Ellison,” came Ann’s voice as she pulled the platform back. “I hope to God he’s all right.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I said, we’re all set.” She reached down and unstrapped the head guard, then undid the Velcro restraints at my ankles and thighs.

“I’m all right,” I said. “Except for my hearing, which I imagine will recover in a couple of days.”

Ann gave me a penetrating look, furrowed her brow, and then said, “You’ll be fine.” She helped me off the platform.